Apocalypse Dawn (7 page)

But it was still nearly impossible to understand that Dwight was gone. No longer would he play chess or share historical mystery novels or argue religion with the chaplain. Dwight had been a Christian of the old school-believing every word of the Bible as the literal truth. The book of Revelation had been a hot topic between them as they tried to imagine what the world would be like after the Rapture. Dwight was convinced that they were living in the end times, that the world had reached the point of no return when believers and nonbelievers would be separated by God’s own hand.

Delroy didn’t believe that, and their arguments had sometimes grown heated because Dwight believed so fiercely. Dwight had accused Delroy of hiding his head in the sand, of denying a truth so obvious that any child should be able to see it. Dwight had been growing in his faith, seeing things and making connections that Delroy was just unable to accept. Delroy thought that by debating the future with Dwight, he was defending the faith. Sometimes, though, after one of their discussions, he wondered in the dark of the night if Dwight was right. Perhaps he was the one hiding the lack of strength of his faith. Maybe he was only giving lip service to the beliefs his father had taught him so long ago.

“God help me, Dwight,” Delroy said in a choked voice. “I am going to miss you so much.” He placed a hand on the body bag, knowing that a few of the young Marine corpsmen and navy sailors on board Wasp would never have thought of willingly touching a corpse, even through the body bag.

Being with the dead man didn’t bother Delroy the way he knew it had bothered some of the other men who helped carry the corpse into the room. Back home in Marbury, the farming community he had grown up in, sitting up with the dead before the burial was a long-established practice. Delroy had sat up many nights, with his grandparents and his father and the people of his father’s parish.

But you didn’t get the chance to sit up with Terrence, did you? Despite the long years that had passed, tears stung Delroy’s eyes. Remembering was so confusing. Images of Terrence as a baby, as a gaptoothed four-year-old holding a chamois and helping Daddy wash the family station wagon, as a young man playing high school basketball, and finally as a Marine corporal in a dress uniform festooned with ribbons and medals. No chance at all.

Five years ago, his son, Lance Corporal Terrence David Harte, had come home from the Middle East sealed in a box that had never been opened. The military had handled the burial with pomp and splendor and brevity. Delroy, stationed elsewhere, had been flown home in time for the funeral.

After the funeral and most of the requisite bereavement leave, Delroy had opted to return to his post sooner than required. His wife had never understood that he couldn’t stay there in the home that he and Terrence had remodeled. Terrence had been everywhere in that house-in the pictures hanging on the wall, in the sink stand that was a half-inch longer on the right than it was supposed to be because Terrence hadn’t cut the exact center from the countertop. The mistake had been his and Terrence’s, and they’d waited years for someone to notice. Delroy’s wife never had.

Tenderly, Delroy folded the old memories and put them away. He enjoyed them because they were all he had left of the son he’d loved so much, but he resented that they could intrude into his thoughts, into his life, without warning and sometimes without provocation.

Today, though, there had been plenty of provocation. He returned to the tall stool next to the stainless steel table where he had been composing the letter Dwight had charged him to write. It had almost been a joke between them last night as Dwight was prepped for surgery.

“Write to her, Chaplain Harte,” Dwight had said. “Write to my wife and my kids. Tell them how much I love them. If this thing goes sour, I want them to know that I was thinking of them. And that I’m sorry I couldn’t be there more.”

Delroy had tried to allay his friend’s fears. Serious military man that Dwight was, he had been torn between family and duty all his life. He had always said God would let him know when he’d had enough of the navy-or when the navy had had enough of him.

Someone rapped on the door to the small room.

“Come,” Delroy said. He set his face, automatically reaching for the tie in his pocket in case the length of time he’d spent with the dead man had attracted the captain’s attention. Captain Mark Falkirk was a by-the-book navy officer, but he was also a man who realized his crew and staff were human.

The door opened and a hesitant young man stuck in his head. “Chaplain Harte.”

“You know I don’t stand on formality when I’m not at post, Tom.” Delroy’s military rank was commander, but the proper verbal address for all military chaplains remained Chaplain.

“Yes, sir.” The young midshipman stepped into the room. Tom Mason was one of the aides Falkirk had assigned to coordinate between the chaplain and the staff. “It’s just that …” He looked at the sheet-covered corpse, then back at Delroy. “You’re working.”

Delroy shook his head. “I’m just doing a favor for an old friend. Come on in.”

The midshipman held up a cup. “I brought you coffee. Cream, two sugars. Shaken, not stirred.” It was an old joke, but he meant well.

“Bless you.” A real grin twisted Delroy’s face. He accepted the cup Tom handed him.

Tom stood between Delroy and the door, coming no closer to the corpse than he had to.

Delroy sipped his coffee, finding it sweet and hot. “You don’t have to be nervous, Tom. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you.”

Tom scratched at his shirt collar with more than a little nervousness. “I know that, Chaplain Harte.”

“You watch too many horror movies.” Delroy knew that several of the crew passed DVDs around the ship, sharing and trading with each other as they did with books and video games. Tom was a horror movie aficionado.

“Yes, sir,” Tom agreed. “1 do.”

The men aboard Wasp had seen a lot of action in recent years, even if most of it had only been lying in wait off the coast. They were familiar with death, but most of them weren’t comfortable with it.

The matter wasn’t helped by the fact that Chief Petty Officer Dwight Mellencamp had been aboard ship for years and was a personable man. Over twenty-six hundred men and women crewed aboard Wasp since the ship had been retrofitted with fern mods, upgrades that allowed the quartering of the female Marines and sailors that amounted to 10 to 25 percent of the crew. But most of that crew had known Dwight, or known of him.

Delroy put the coffee cup down. “What brings you here?”

“Captain Falkirk.”

Delroy examined the paper in front of him. He’d chosen not to use the notebook computer he had back in his quarters. A message like this needed the personal touch. Dwight would have wanted a letter, not a fax or an e-mail, sent to his family.

“And what did the captain want?” Delroy asked. He thought Falkirk was going to suggest strongly that he stand down for a time.

“A eulogy,” Tom answered.

Delroy frowned, feeling overwhelmed.

“A lot of people knew Chief Mellencamp,” Tom explained. “Captain Falkirk feels that addressing the situation, what happened to the chief, with a small service would be better than letting the crew deal with it alone. As big as Wasp is, we’re like a community. The captain believes everybody aboard ship would feel better if we said a proper good-bye to the chief.”

Despite the additional pressure the situation put on him, Delroy had to agree with the captain’s assessment. The situation along the border between Turkey and Syria was gut-churning for Marine troops and navy crew, who lived with the fact that they might be called into immediate service at any time. Wasp, with nearly twenty-seven hundred souls aboard her, not counting the crews of the other six support ships in the ready group, held almost the same population as Marbury, Alabama. But the crew aboard Wasp lived on a world that measured 820 feet long and 106 feet wide, a very small island. Marbury was spread out considerably more, and folks still managed to keep up with each other’s business. When Delroy had been a boy there, all the funerals were standing room only, the pews packed with family and friends.

“All right,” Delroy said. “Does the captain have a time frame in mind?”

“Captain Falkirk said to leave it up to you. But he also said that something like this, it’s better to deal with it sooner than later.”

Delroy nodded.

“The captain said to take your time,” Tom went on. “He knows you and the chief were close.” The midshipman hesitated. “I suggested that the captain get someone else.”

“No.” The reply was out of Delroy’s mouth before he knew it, and the answer was also sharper than he’d intended. There’s no one else I would assign this to.

Tom took a step back.

“Easy,” Delroy said. He rubbed the back of his neck with a big hand, hoping in vain to ease some of the tension there. “Nobody’s going to do that eulogy but me. Tell the captain to give me a call at his convenience later. We’ll iron out the details then.”

Before Tom could reply, a warning Klaxon screamed. The banshee wail filled the room, echoing in the larger medical department on the other side of the open door.

It was, Delroy thought, loud enough to wake the dead. But it didn’t this time. The flesh that had once been Dwight Mellencamp lay unmoving in the body bag.

Tom turned and charged out the door.

Delroy followed at the younger man’s heels as they pounded through the medical department and ran out into the hall. A stream of men and women hurried through the halls and climbed the stairs leading up to the flight deck. They strapped on protective gear-vests and helmets-as they quickly filed upward.

“What’s going on?” a sailor asked a Marine.

“Dunno,” the Marine corpsman said. “Our general orders are to assemble on the flight deck and stand ready to deploy.”

“Deploy?” The sailor caught the stair railing and yanked himself around. “Deploy where?”

“The border,” the Marine replied. “That’s where the heat is. Don’t you keep up with current events?” The Marine shook his head.

“Man, that’s crazy.”

Pausing, Delroy let the last of the crewmen and Marines climb the stairs. He fell in behind them, sprinting up through the 02 level. In seconds, he was on the flight deck, coming up inside the island that housed the bridge.

Delroy surveyed the activity that swept the landing helicopter dockship. Movement filled the LHD as deck crews dressed in colorcoded jerseys-primarily red for fuel and ordnance and yellow for spotters-ran to their assigned posts. Marines erupted from flight deck ramp tunnel, moving at a dead run with their gear tied securely around them and their assault rifles held at port arms before them. In the old days, military Jeeps had been able to drive up those ramps, but the Humvees they used now were too wide. The next generation of landing helicopter dockships had already worked appropriate changes into the redesigns.

Fighter jets, AV-8B Harriers, rolled off the flight deck, dropping out over the dark sea then rising like kites caught by the wind. Wasp had nine takeoff and landing positions on the deck for helicopters, six to port and three to starboard. The port and stem elevators brought up CH-46E and CH-53E helicopters and the Harriers two at a time.

The CH-46Es, designated Sea Knights, had the distinctive twin prop design. The CH-53E Sea Stallions had the more traditional appearance of a main rotor backed by a tail rotor and were currently ranked as the fastest helos the Marines handled. As soon as the helos were in place and had been boarded by Marine troops, they leapt into the sky.

No voices could be heard over the din that filled Wasp’s flight deck. Jet turbines on the Harriers screamed, competing with the whirling rotors on the cargo helicopters used as troop transports. Navy crew outfitted the aircraft as they rolled on deck from the elevators.

Delroy kept moving toward the island, which was what most of the crew called the bridge structure on the ship’s starboard side. As chaplain for the ship, Delroy had to remain available to help out where he could. He raced up the stairs and through the coded doors leading to Primary Flight. Pri-Fly was Wasp’s nerve center for air operations.

Commander Kelly Tomlinson stood watch this morning. Designated the air boss, he’d served in the same capacity for a handful of years. He was tall and muscular with a shock of blond hair and a surfer’s tan. He also held the current record for bench presses down in the ship’s fitness center and had been a fierce surfing competitor in Hawaii before giving up that dream and stepping into the military life.

The commander glanced at Delroy then resumed watching the deck activity through the heavy-duty glass. “Good to have you, Chaplain.”

“Thank you, sir.” Delroy moved to his usual place back of the shipboard computers. He stood with Lieutenant Gabriel Morales, who was in charge of the Landing Signals Officers. They’d shared stories in the galley about small towns and family.

Morales’s LSOs remained grouped and ready to assist with aircraft landing. Each man and woman was clothed in deck gear, including helmets and goggles. The lieutenant was lanky but muscular. He had grown up on a working cattle ranch in west Texas and sported a mustache that pushed the envelope on navy regs.

“What’s up, Gabe?” Delroy asked.

“The Syrians just launched a full-blown attack across the border,” Gabe said in a low voice. “They took out the communications towers with SCUDS and FROG-7s. From what I understand, the U.N. peacekeeping forces and the 75th Rangers are taking a beating.”

Delroy glanced at the state-of-the-art weather forecasting equipment that was the heart of the Pri-Fly area. Weather affected every operation. A small television monitor mounted next to the computer screens showed a battle in progress. The tagline read TURKISHSYRIAN BORDER.

“What triggered the attack?” Delroy asked.

Gabe shrugged. His dark brown eyes flashed as he watched the aircraft lifting off Wasp’s flight deck. “Who knows? It was waiting to happen, Del. Only a matter of time. The intel I was looking at, man, you just knew the Syrians were gonna jump some time.”